The Man Who Was Magic (18 page)

“But aren’t we all?” asked Adam, wishing that Ninian would be more sensible, for he could see that it was frightening Jane who was already upset by Mopsy’s absence.

“No, no, no,” breathed Ninian, “Can’t you see? Not that kind. You’re different from us. That’s why they hate you. They’re out to get you.”

Adam wondered why he had made enemies without meaning to do so. Mopsy, clever little Mopsy, had divined it from the very first and had tried to caution him.

“How do you know?” he said to Ninian. “Have you told anyone about the birdcage and the goldfish bowl and how it happened?”

This was the question that Ninian had been dreading. Nevertheless, his treason made him feel so guilty that he had to try to warn Adam. For an instant he experienced an almost overwhelming desire to throw himself upon Adam’s mercy and confess everything, namely that he had been a traitor and a coward who had sold him out to save his own neck. But now, caught up in the direct gaze of Adam’s strange eyes, he could not bring himself to do it. “No, no, of course not,” he lied, “I haven’t told anybody anything. I—I just sort of heard.”

“Then maybe you’re just fancying things, Ninian, and I shouldn’t worry too much,” said Adam. Then he added, “You haven’t seen Mopsy, have you? He’s missing.”

“Mopsy missing? Oh dear, how terrible! No, I haven’t seen him at all. I can’t imagine where he might be.”

And here again he was unable to look Adam straight in the eye, for it was only a half truth. While he
had
not seen Mopsy, he could guess what might have occurred to him—snatched and in the power of Malvolio. But he didn’t dare to say so. All he could do was wring his hands and mumble, “Oh dear, then you won’t take my advice?”

“No,” Adam said quietly.

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! If you must go on, won’t you do something very simple, please? Like the cups and balls, cigarettes, or a routine with cards? I’ve got a nice little trick in my dressing room I could let you have that doesn’t work for me—the Coin and the Bottle. Very effective. The trouble is, I can get it in, but I can never manage to get it out.”

“Perhaps you could if I helped you,” Adam offered.

And this suggestion threw Ninian into an absolute panic. “Help me? Oh no, no, I beg of you! You mustn’t. You mustn’t come near me. I shan’t be needing any help. I promised them . . . I mean, I shall be all right.” Now all he wanted was to escape from Adam’s eyes and before any more questions could be asked of him. So once again putting his finger to his lips, he whispered, “Shsh! I must be going. Don’t let on to anyone I’ve been here.” And he nipped out the door.

“Now what do you imagine that was all about?” Adam said.

“And why do you think Ninian’s being so silly about letting you help him?” asked Jane. “He wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been for you. He’ll never pass the way he is.” A troubled look came into her eyes. “Do you suppose there’s any truth in what he was saying? And
are
you going to do special magic?”

Outside in the corridor a call boy passed shouting, “First act, five minutes!”

“I can’t think what’s got into poor old Ninian,” he smiled, “but your father rather gave me an idea for what might be a very pretty number.”

“One of Daddy’s tricks?” cried Jane, strangely feeling half relieved and simultaneously disappointed.

Adam smiled again. “Well, not exactly,” he said. “Shall we say a development? Something that might fill a stage. Would you like to hear about it?”

“Oh yes, please!” cried Jane, once more excited. “Oh hurry, please.”

“There’s plenty of time,” said Adam. “We’re not on until last, right after Ninian.” He looked about the dressing room. “Aha!” he said, “this will do famously.” He went over to a movable clothes rack on rollers, a pole with two crosspieces on which to hang coats. “Now then,” Adam continued, “the first thing we do is this,” and he began to show her.

The Magic Museum of Mageia was not precisely the most comforting place to be locked away in at night and particularly for a small dog with no hope of getting out.

Although the main lights were extinguished, there were a few “E
XIT
” and emergency bulbs burning, just sufficient to throw shadows and cause the dozens of silent figures and automata to loom up even more menacingly.

Mopsy had had a trot around of inspection, trying to find some means of escape, and what he had been able to discern in the semigloom was not exactly encouraging. There were many long cases full of magical apparatus, both modern and dating back many hundreds of years, but the main attraction of the Museum was its reproduction of the effects achieved by the priests of the ancient temples of the Egyptians, the Greeks and the Assyrians and facsimiles of these had been constructed with some rather horrible-looking gods sitting on thrones.

A whole section was devoted to lay figures which had been created by inventive magicians of the past: a giant, a dwarf, a warrior in armor, a Gypsy fortuneteller, a Turk at a chessboard, a devil in red at a card table, skeletons, clowns, a mechanical horse, a Chinese dragon and what not, all silent and motionless in the semidarkness.

Some of these were on the door, others suspended from the ceiling. The effect was eerie and disquieting. It gave Mopsy the feeling that he was being watched.

But the worst thing was that there was no way out. Mopsy, while not very large, if he stood on his hind legs would have been able with his paw to pull down a door handle and by leaning his weight against it, push it open. But, alas, these were all round, slippery knobs on which he could get no kind of purchase whatsoever, neither with his paws nor with his teeth.

He had heard the Town Hall clock strike nine and then ten and was close to giving way to despair. The moment was drawing nigh when Adam and Jane would be taking the stage and in his mind he saw the mob, whipped up to frenzy by Malvolio’s agitators, descending upon them to tear them to bits.

Then again panic would set in and he would run and leap at the doors, scrabbling at the knobs in a futile attempt to escape, which would end only in exhaustion and tears of frustration as he moaned, “Oh, if I only had some of Adam’s magic to help me.”

The Town Hall clock boomed the half hour.

Down in the subterranean passage of the Auditorium, the call boy was once more afoot outside the dressing rooms and this time his cry was, “Seventh act, five minutes! Ninian the Nonpareil! Ninian the Nonpareil, five minutes!”

Within Adam’s room, Jane made him a long, graceful curtsy.

“Splendid!” said Adam. “You’ve got it letter-perfect. Ninian’s on next. Shall we go and watch him?” He picked up the clothes rack, set the silk topper jauntily on the side of his head and taking Jane by the hand, they went out and upstairs into the wings of the theater.

XVIII

O
NE FOR THE
S
HOW

A
theater seen from where Jane and Adam stood in the wings, amid the tangle of ropes, wires, cables, props, nervous magicians and their assistants with stagehands rushing about, is quite different when viewed from a seat in the stalls.

Because of the foot and spotlights dazzling one’s eyes, the audience lurks in the darkness, felt rather than seen, like some great beast waiting to be placated with flattery, entertainment, distraction or diversion lest it burst forth into those most dreaded of all sounds—boos, hisses and catcalls. Conversely, when pleased it would overwhelm the performer with applause and loud cries of “Bravo!” and “Encore!”

Even though Jane came from a professional family, she shivered slightly as she tried to look out behind the lights to that menacing “thing” hiding in the shadows, signalized only by the white shirt fronts in the first few rows. She thought she could make out the dark, sallow features of Malvolio and Mephisto with their heads together. Those people out there could make or break one. In fact this was the way the participants in these final trials for admission to the Guild of Master Magicians were judged, accepted by acclamation and ovation; rejected by bored or lukewarm reception.

At that moment they were not being overly enthusiastic about the magician holding the stage, even though his assistant was pretty enough, his repertoire of tricks and illusions smooth and well executed and his form could not be challenged. But it was obvious that the beast in the blackness wasn’t satisfied. It had already seen a number of acts. It craved something more novel, unusual and stimulating.

The conjurer finished his turn and made his exit to what was no more than a polite appreciation.

The audience settled down again, the Orchestra Leader tapped his baton preparatory to accompanying the next turn and the announcer, stepping to a microphone at the side of the stage said, “The next act, ladies and gentlemen—Ninian the Nonpareil!”

Jane whispered, “Adam, I’m holding my thumbs for him. Oh, I do wish him luck!”

“And I,” said Adam.

Out onto the stage from the opposite wings shambled Ninian, to stand miserably blinking in the pools of brilliance thrown by the spotlights. Because of all that had happened to him that day, he was in the throes of the worst attack of stage fright ever and he stood there helplessly, chewing his lips. His hair, his mustaches, even his eyebrows and his clothes drooped and one could literally see his knees knocking together.

The contrast between the pompous announcement, “Ninian the Nonpareil,” and the emaciated, terrified, bean pole of a man who had crept out into view was so pronounced that instead of the usual, courtesy patter of applause that greeted each newcomer, someone laughed.

The sound from the silent and waiting theater was shattering. It completed the job of unnerving Ninian into a state close to collapse.

Somehow he managed to stammer, “G-g-g-good evening?” and doffed his top hat, whereupon everything he had loaded therein cascaded onto the stage: a horseshoe, two china eggs, four colored billiard balls, a small rabbit, two baby chicks, a bell, a watch and three packs of cards.

These articles went spilling, clattering, rattling, rolling and bouncing about the platform. The rabbit hopped off. The chickens began pecking at imaginary bits of corn.

Ninian skipped about frantically to retrieve the things with the further result that as he stooped, objects that had been concealed up his sleeves and in the pockets of his tail coat began likewise to tumble forth: dishes, trick cigarettes, fans, parasols, coins, thimbles, dice, paper flowers and what not. He had apparently come prepared with everything he possessed.

And the audience dissolved into such a roar of delighted mirth that every crystal of the huge chandelier that hung from the dome tinkled. The magicians had never seen anything quite so funny in all their lives as this burlesque of themselves and they were convinced that it was all part of a carefully planned and timed act.

“Oh, poor Ninian!” Jane cried and she could hardly make herself heard above the storm of hilarity that was still rocking the Auditorium. “They’re laughing at him! Adam, help him, please! I can’t bear it. Don’t you see? He simply can’t manage by himself.”

“Oh, but he can,” replied Adam. “He’s found the only solution. Why ever didn’t I think of it before? Still, it won’t do any harm to make sure. Very well then, Jane, I will, but don’t be upset at what you see.”

Nobody in the whole history of all Mageian entertainment had made Magicians laugh, shriek and whoop until their sides ached. The tears blinded their eyes and they could hardly gasp for breath.

For now, on top of what had happened already, as Ninian attempted to go through his routine, everything that could possibly and ludicrously go wrong, did so. Not only was he all thumbs so that he either dropped articles or revealed where they were hidden, but the props themselves seemed to be bewitched or, as it appeared to the audience, purposely gimmicked to produce the maximum in absurdity.

Balloons exploded in his face. The changing water into wine trick went haywire, when the wine turned into beer instead and came frothing out of the glass all over his shoes. When he tried to fan cards, they became limp as washrags. The handkerchiefs routine, which should have resulted in a chain of colored silks, resolved instead into an apparently endless string of sausages, which he kept pulling forth until they filled almost a quarter of the stage. When he tried to shoot off a pistol as a climax, instead of going “Bang!” it went “Moo!” like a cow, and a squirt of milk came from the muzzle.

Oblivious now to his audience, a wild glare in his eye and mumbling savagely to himself, Ninian continued to battle with billiard balls that turned to rubber and bounced away! Chinese rings that refused to be joined together when he wanted them to, but fell apart and rolled away as soon as he wasn’t looking. The expression of dismay and surprise on his long face sent the spectators off into renewed gales of laughter. As a finale the poor man had arranged something really fanciful in which he would produce fireworks—a pin wheel and a Roman candle. But unfortunately they went off prematurely in his coat tails, propelling him first into some floral scenery which collapsed about his head and shoulders, and eventually off the stage in a cloud of smoke, sparks and colored lights to the greatest tornado of cheers and applause yet granted to any performer.